Homeward Bound
by BurningTyger
Summary: A Moulin Rouge fanfiction, in which Christian has forsaken the Bohemian ideals in the aftermath of the movie's events. He leaves France for home, hoping that there, he might find some kind of solace. Rated PG-13 for drunkenness and some swearing. Finally
1. Shades of Mediocrity

  
Homeward Bound  
Chapter One: Shades of Mediocrity  
Burning Tyger  
  
Disclaimer: Luhrmann is amazing! He owns it all, except the song that inspired the title, which is owned by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel. :) No infringement is, of course, intended.  
  
Author's note: I tried really hard not to overuse the French in here, but they *were* in France. It's only in conversation once or twice, and it's fairly well-known. I also tried to follow the slightly more complicated things with translations.   
  
On the other hand: I take French currently, but considering our teacher's IQ (approximately that of pickle relish) I might be wrong in any number of ways. If I am, my apologies. Flame her, not me. ;-) Also, sorry about the lack of accent marks, as they don't seem to work in text files.  
  
~~  
  
Homeward Bound  
  
But all my words come back to me  
In shades of mediocrity  
Like emptiness in harmony  
I need someone to comfort me...  
  
--Simon and Garfunkel, "Homeward Bound"  
  
  
He was tired of the typewriter. The harsh clicking noise it made jarred his mind and set his head aching. And whenever he began to get one of the headaches, he reached for a bottle of absinthe, which diluted the headache but often made his typing indecipherable. It hindered him, rather than helping, but he'd reached the point where he didn't care. The writing wasn't even that good when he was sober.  
  
Sometimes Satine's memory didn't hurt so badly when he was drunk, though. He could for an instant recall her smile without seeing the blood trailing from her lips, occasionally remember holding her in bed rather than on that stark, cold stage. Then other times, her face haunted him, cool beneath the veiled hat. She would tell him that the duke had offered her all she ever dreamed of, and that she was going with him. And whenever he saw her that way, she didn't come back.  
  
Christian often wondered if it would not have been better for him to have closed the door behind her that night. Then maybe he wouldn't be living from drink to drink, even if it *did* rid him of his headaches.  
  
But in the morning (and this was entirely the fault of the absinthe) the headache would return, and he would be no better off than where he had begun. Eventually, the solution had come clear: if he stopped writing, he would no longer get the headaches that he drank to escape.  
  
Was it really the headaches he was escaping? Or the memories that he was trying to commit to paper?  
  
It was perhaps three weeks after Satine's death when he realized he could no longer stay in Montmartre. He had to get out of this cramped and dirty hotel room, out of this gray, desperate city, out of France altogether. And he could only go one place.  
  
"Home," he muttered, only slightly slurring the word: he wasn't *that* drunk yet. It would mean crawling back on his belly, as it were, but there was nowhere else to go.  
  
"Fuck pride," he said casually to himself, looking out from the balcony across the dull, lifeless streets. "Don' need it. And I can't...can't stay here." His eyes had fallen on her elephant, so he took another drink. Why not? How about playing a little drinking game: every time he thought about Satine, he'd take another sip.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, the bottle was empty. He sighed, stumbled drunkenly in from the balcony, and flopped down on the bed.  
  
~~  
  
He had considered chucking the typewriter from the window, but instead he packaged it up as gently as he had when he had come. This room looked different in sunlight, he noticed. It looked like it had on any of the days when Satine had come, and he had by turns read her his poetry and made love to her. She said the poetry was beautiful, but he had rather liked the latter more.  
  
He sighed, remembering that he'd never awake again with her curled against him. And as he thought that, a cloud seemed to come over the sun (although the weather wasn't really cued directly to his mood) and the room was again bathed in the shabby dimness of the underworld.  
  
He carefully examined his reflection in the small mirror by the bed. Hm...the beard would have to go. He didn't really like it anyway -- it made him look older and somewhat scruffy. It had only happened in the first place because he had been too apathetic to shave.  
  
A moment later, Toulouse popped his head down through the hole in Christian's ceiling. "What are you *doing?*" the dwarf shouted.  
  
Christian jumped, jerking the razor and swearing loudly. "Toulouse, what the *hell* did you have to do that for?" He rubbed the back of his hand over a spot on his jaw that was now bleeding rather copiously. "Damn it!"  
  
Toulouse had managed to climb down the ladder and was staring curiously around the room. "What ees zis? You aren't *leaving,* are you, Chreestian?"  
  
"Yes, I am," he asserted quietly, rinsing off the razor and jamming it back in his pocket.  
  
"But - but you can't!"  
  
"Who the hell told you that?" He pulled on his coat and grabbed his hat off of the rack by the door.  
  
"What happened to Bohemian ideals? Twuth, beauty, fweedom -- *love*?"  
  
He laughed harshly and picked up his two suitcases. "Let's just say I've lost my faith in at least one of those. Hazard a guess which one?"  
  
Toulouse gaped at him, his speech impediment seeming more pronounced. "Love? You don't bewieve in *love* anymowe?"  
  
"I have no reason to."  
  
"She loved you! Satine loved you!"  
  
Christian spun on his heel. "Don't talk about her!" he shouted. The little man stumbled backwards and ended up sitting on the bed. Christian stood there, practically in the doorway, fuming. Then he shook his head. "*Je suis desole* -- I am sorry, my friend. Being here is just...too much."  
  
"Ah, I see. Bad feelings for ze good memowies, *non*?"  
  
"Something like that."  
  
Toulouse nodded. "Au revoir, mon ami."  
  
Christian nodded. "Goodbye, Toulouse. May the Diamonds always sparkle for you," he offered fervently.  
  
From anyone else, it would have sounded crazy, but coming from Christian it was just another poem.  
  
Toulouse stared after his retreating friend for another instant, then turned back to the ladder. In turning, he spied a half-full bottle of what appeared to be magnolia wine on the nightstand. Grinning, he grabbed it by the neck, toasted Christian, and took a long swig. Then he clambered back up the ladder and out of sight.  
  
TBC...whether you want it or not. ;-)  



	2. I wish I was...

Homeward Bound  
Chapter Two: I wish I was...  
  
This chapter and the subsequent ones were written under the impression (wrong or right) that both of Christian's parents are still alive.  
  
Disclaimer: Again, no infringement is intended, so please just leave the Sunburnt One alone!   
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter thus far: Katherine, EloraSalecite (let's see who's being harsh in THIS one), The Beanster (Desole is "desolate," je suis desole would mean "I'm really sorry"), SugarPrincess, dafnap (let's see where Christian's harsh streak comes from), Rue, Liz Skywalker (Another Star Wars AND Moulin Rouge fan! Yay!), angellyfish (thanks, it's good to know my French wasn't terrible), and Taskir (it's so much fun to write in Toulouse's lispy French!). Thank you all so much, merci beaucoup (note that for the ending: merci is thank you), gracias, danke, etc. Your comments are appreciated more than you probably know. Unless you're an author yourself...in which case you know how great it is to hear nice things about your writing!  
  
An interesting note: I pulled the street name out of thin air...then I looked it up to see if "La Rousse" really meant anything. Sometimes I really do wonder if I am psychic...  
  
  
~~  
  
London, England. It was nothing like Montmartre, and it never had been. Where the Paris slum was shabbily glamorous, this part of London was whitewashed into respectability. But the London Christian had lived in always been sedate and stiff-necked, a fact which had made the frenetic energy of the Moulin Rouge so enticing.  
  
It took Christian awhile to maneuver his belongings (such as they were -- clothes, typewriter, and self) out of the train station. By the time he'd hailed one of the little carriages, all he really wanted was a drink. But he was home now, and walking in the door drunk would do nothing but give his father a wonderful reason to boot him right out on his ass.  
  
"One-seventeen Larousse Avenue," he told the driver. It struck him as odd that their street name in England should sound more French than the boulevard he had lived on in Paris. That particular street had had no name; it was merely "Rue 15." [Rue = street]  
  
Larousse...La rousse: translated, it meant "auburn-haired woman." He laughed sardonically at the irony, provoking a questioning stare from the driver. Christian had come home to forget, and even here everything seemed to remind him of *her.*  
  
The driver pulled the horses up with a gruff command. Had Christian seriously dreamed away the hour-long ride? The driver muttered something about the price; Christian handed him a bill and the driver rode off quickly. Christian hoped belatedly that he hadn't given him the twenty-pound note.  
  
Now that he was standing on the porch, the house seemed more imposing. Three stories and all white, it looked cold to him, inhospitable. ~What'd I come all this way for, to lose courage right on the stoop?~ He cursed his hand for trembling when he reached for the knocker.  
  
A woman opened the door a bit and peered out through the gap. "May I help you, sir?"  
  
Christian grinned. "Have I been away so long?"  
  
She gasped, closed the door to release the chain, and opened it wide again. "Christian!" she shouted, throwing her arms about his neck.  
  
"Ah, Maman, it is good to see you!" [Maman is not a typo, it's a French endearing term for "Mother." One wouldn't pronounce the n, so it would really be just ma-MA.]  
  
"Oh! You come back to us so cultured!"  
  
He made his way inside, where she insisted on taking his suitcase from him. "I'm not a guest," he protested softly, but she would have none of it. For a woman of barely five feet and more than fifty years, she could be terribly stubborn.  
  
"You've been gone. Sit yourself down, get a glass of lemonade. I want to hear everything."  
  
He winced. He had of course been expecting such a question, and now he had to evade it, at least for the present. "S'il vous plait, Maman-" [Please, Mother]  
  
The floorboards at the end of the hallway creaked. Christian's father stood framed in the doorway to the parlor. If Christian had considered the house imposing, it was nothing compared to the tall, white-haired gentleman that stood facing him.   
  
"Father-"  
  
"You crawl back home in shame and have the nerve to speak to your mother in that ignoble French? You should be begging our forgiveness!"  
  
"I only called her 'mother'!"  
  
"While you're in my house I'll have none of it!" the old man shouted. Two minutes, and Christian was already being lectured...that had to be a record.  
  
"Sir, you know as well as I do that Mother spent the first ten years of her life in France!"  
  
"And she has spent the last forty trying to overcome those years!"  
  
"Peter, leave off," Christian's mother interrupted.  
  
Christian started. This was a rare sight indeed, his mother actually taking a stand against his father's grip on the household.  
  
"Margaret-"  
  
"Look, the boy just got home. He's been in France for nearly a year; it's quite logical that he would slip into French at times."  
  
"Not in my house," Peter avowed crisply. "He's spent a year with whores and criminals; they're all one or the other in that abysmal country. I'll have none of it!"  
  
"He'll do better. Won't you, Christian?"  
  
It took all his mental power not to give into his inherent sarcasm and say 'oui.' "Yes," he mumbled, finally remembering to take off his hat. "Will you have me, then?"  
  
The elderly man glared for a few more seconds. "Well, you are our son, after all," he muttered gruffly. "You may stay."  
  
"Thank you." Wow, he'd kept the sarcasm out of that, too. He spoke to his mother this time. "Is my old room still ready?"  
  
"Of course," she smiled. It was no secret as to which parent Christian got along with better. Christian hugged her, and whispered, "Merci," softly enough that his father wouldn't hear.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. All My Words Come Back to Me

Homeward Bound  
Chapter Three: All My Words Come Back to Me  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I couldn't give you anything if you DID sue me, cause   
I'm sixteen and the library doesn't have any job openings currently.  
  
Note: Simon and Garfunkel fans will notice that I've put all the lines out of order as my chapters. I do apologize -- I could not command the story to fit into the number of chapters I intended to write. (What, you thought I was in *control* here?)  
  
  
Homeward Bound  
Chapter 3: All My Words Come Back to Me  
  
They were sitting down to tea (Christian had left an empty seat between himself   
and his father) when the door opened. Christian's brother ran into the parlor, apologizing profusely for being late, there had been a problem at the newspaper office and-  
  
He spotted Christian, teacup in hand, and grinned. "Ah, the prodigal son returns."  
  
"The prodigal *elder* son, I'll have you remember," Christian returned mockingly.  
  
"So bitter," he commented, sitting down and pouring himself a cup of tea. "So how was the City of Immorality? Wine, women, and the like?"  
  
Christian's mother interrupted. "He doesn't want to talk about it, Robert."  
  
"Ah, I get it." Robert laughed. "He probably had a bad experience with some whore down in old Pair-ee -- probably thought she was in love with him or something!"  
  
Christian inhaled sharply, as though he'd been hit, then set his teacup down gently. "Excuse me," he muttered, the left the room without waiting for further comment.  
  
He spent the afternoon in his room. He didn't really want to unpack; he didn't know how long he'd be staying. But he was fairly sure there was nowhere else to go.  
  
In the end, he decided only to unpack the typewriter. Perhaps with a change of milieu, he'd be able to write. Perhaps not about *her* as yet, but about *something.*  
  
He wasn't really sure how long he sat at the desk, the blank white paper staring him in the face. "Damn it!" He tore the paper from the typewriter, crumpled it up, and threw it at the wastebasket indifferently. He wondered clinically why he had done that; there was nothing on the paper, thus there probably had been no reason to throw it away. But smashing it into a little ball had been very satisfying.  
  
He wondered if he would ever want to write again.  
  
~~  
  
He fell asleep at the desk just before dark; he woke up again at eleven-fifteen, realizing he'd missed dinner. He was slightly put-out that no one had seen fit to come wake him, but he saw his mother's note lying on the corner of the desk.  
  
Didn't want to wake you -- there is food in the pantry if you get hungry tonight.  
  
  
But he wasn't hungry. After another wrestling match with writer's block and an untimely nap, he again felt the need for a drink.  
  
He pulled his coat off the doorknob and stepped quietly out into the hall. The fifth step from the bottom would squeak; he skipped it before he consciously knew he had done so.  
  
"Where are you going, Christian?"  
  
He swore and turned around. His mother was standing in the hall, a book in her hand.  
  
"I..." It was no good lying, but he wasn't going to act embarrassed about what he was doing. "I'm going out for a drink."  
  
She didn't even look surprised. "You'll find neither absinthe nor magnolia wine in a London pub."  
  
"How did you -"  
  
"My father was fond of both. Lock the door when you go; take the key on the hook beside the door." She turned to go back into the parlor.  
  
"What, aren't you going to stop me? Tell me I shouldn't do this to myself, that this will just make Father angrier?"  
  
She tossed him a small, knowing smile. "You won't listen to anyone who tells you not to, unless that person is you. And do bundle up, Christian. English winters are cold."  
  
Without waiting for the admonition that probably wasn't coming, Christian stuffed the key in his pocket and left the house.  
  
~~  
  
She was right; London pubs were nothing like the nightclubs that seemed to   
overrun Paris. Here, men sat in dim, smoky halls, drinking beer or whisky and calling out lewdly to the barmaids. Suddenly England seemed so terribly uncultured. He wondered why his father took such offense at the French, when here on his own island, the situation was no better.  
  
He ordered a pint of whiskey; the bartender underfilled the glass, then slapped it down on the counter so hard as to spill a good deal of what remained. Christian judged that about half the original pint remained, but he said nothing as he handed the barkeep a few coins.  
  
In a corner booth, the smoke was less dense. He drank the whole 'pint,' even though he remembered at the first sip that he had never cared for it. It was *strong* whiskey, too, and just about brought tears to his eyes.  
  
"Can I refill that for ye?"  
  
He blinked hard. "Satine-" But no, this woman had a cockney accent, and   
although her hair was as red as Satine's, it was cropped to barely below her shoulders. But squinting through the smoke, he could see that the bar girl had about fifty pounds and at least fifteen years on his love.  
  
He tried to tell himself that it was the whiskey, or perhaps the poorly-lit pub, that made him see Satine in someone so little like her. He knew that wasn't it; he was obsessed with his courtesan, and this kind of hallucinatory shit had to stop *now.*  
  
"No," he said quickly, pushing his empty glass to the side and standing up. He didn't excuse his quick exit as simply "leaving." It was an escape, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that.  
  
The night was indeed cold, but he was nearly too preoccupied to notice it. He was obsessed with a dead woman: *dead.* Why hadn't the word struck him so harshly before? Surely he had recognized the meaning of her death on the stage with her.  
  
So why did it hurt so much worse now? He brushed a frozen teardrop from his cheek. He was seeing her everywhere, but -  
  
*He would never see her again.* And these mind tricks had to stop.  
  
~~  
  
"You haven't been gone very long," his mother commented gently as he shook   
snow off his coat. "Lost your taste for English beer?"  
  
"I don't think I ever had one."  
  
She set her book aside without marking her page. Christian suspected that she hadn't been reading it in the first place, just waiting for him to come home.   
  
"Will you tell me, Christian?"  
  
It was the only way he was ever going to stop imagining things -- to tell someone. "Yes," he said softly.  
  
TBC  
  



	4. Home, Where My Thought's Escaping

Homeward Bound  
CHAPTER 4: Home, Where My Thought's Escaping  
  
Disclaimer: What, do you think anything has changed? That in between chapters 3 and 4 I was suddenly adopted by Baz, who gave me the rights as an un-birthday gift? Of course not! I am still but a lowly fanfiction writer, who can make no money from what she is doing, and who intends no infringement on the great Baz. Woe is me! But I'm having a lot of fun. ;-)  
  
~Anyone who finds the song line (not from Homeward Bound) in here, and knows the original group to have recorded it, gets Cool Points from me. They don't count for anything, and they don't physically exist, but when I'm famous, you can brag that I gave you Cool Points 'way back when.' I did change one word, but if you know the song, you'll probably find the lyric.~  
  
ONE MORE NOTE...  
  
Even if you know French, you might want to read the translation section below. Since there are no accent marks, some words may resemble others. Also, I didn't bother to translate what I have already used in the prior chapters, 'cause you should remember that. ;-) See? An educational fanfiction...there may be a test at the end.  
  
- Bien = good, all right, okay  
- Non = no, but at the end of a sentence like "Life sucks, non?" it would be more like "Life sucks, you know/right?"  
- Mon chere fil = my dear son  
- Elle est morte = she's dead  
- mais je l'aime = but I love her  
- Je sais = I know  
- Bon soir = good night/evening  
- ou = or  
- Bon matin = good morning  
  
~~  
  
Homeward Bound  
Chapter 4: Home, Where My Thought's Escaping  
  
He followed her into the dining room, where he sat down.  
  
"A moment," she said, and left, returning with two glasses and a bottle.  
  
Christian laughed, pretending to be scandalized. "Absinthe? Maman, I did not know..."  
  
"Perhaps it shall help you to find the words. But I think only one glass, non? I would like you to be coherent."  
  
"Bien."  
  
She poured his glass and her own, and he sipped the evil-looking green liquor thoughtfully. He didn't know how to begin, then decided simply to start with *her.* "She was the star of a - a nightclub, the Moulin Rouge, and her name was Satine." The name slid so easily from his lips, the first time since her death that it hadn't seemed to burn his throat to speak it. "A few friends of mine had arranged a, er, a rendezvous with her - "  
  
"Totally alone, of course?"  
  
"Exactly. But she had double-booked, as it were, and a duke was to see her on the same night I was supposed to. She mistook me for the duke, and I...well, I made quite a fool of myself. And I was so naïve, I thought the things she had said to me were true, about loving me..." After a fashion, he stopped paying attention to his own words, but he knew he was telling her everything. About the Duke, Zidler's deal, the play, Satine and how he had fallen in love with her. He explained how happy he had been to know she loved him, how he truly had understood her situation with the Duke, and how he had promised not to be jealous. And then he admitted to breaking that promise.  
  
Margaret had filled Christian's glass at least three times, despite the limit she had imposed. She wondered briefly if that last glass would push him over the edge, but he had been drinking absinthe for a long time; it would have taken at least two more glasses to become satisfactorily drunk. She had lifted her own glass barely once, so enthralled was she in her son's tale.  
  
"I really believe I went mad with jealousy," he continued. "I kept asking her why I couldn't pay her, since it seemed that I was nothing more to her than another customer. The actor who was supposed to play her lover had fallen asleep (he was a narcoleptic) and tumbled down a flight of stairs around scene three. I didn't know I was going to take his place until the little door opened and I was there on the stage with her. Zidler found some kind of excuse for the sitar player's radical change in appearance; I don't know what it was. And then I just stood there, threw the money down, and said, 'I paid my whore.' And something in that word suddenly seemed so brutal. I mean, courtesan had sounded civilized, high-class, but 'whore' made me see everything differently. I just stalked off the stage, leaving her there. She was crying, but I think that was what the script called for in that scene anyway, so it may not have been because of me.  
  
"The Duke -- I don't remember much about him at that time, but he was furious, and at one point he caused a bit of a stir. I kept walking; I suppose I eventually meant to go out the back doors, and she just started singing. It was the song that we had written together -- it was to be sung by the sitar player and his courtesan, but truly it was for us, Satine and me. And...I stopped, and I sang with her. Then I started back up onto the stage, and we finished the play the way I had intended it, without the Duke's forced changes.  
  
"The curtain came down, and...she just collapsed. She was coughing up blood, dying of consumption, and she hadn't even told me." Tears were rolling down Christian's face, but he either ignored them or didn't know he was crying. "She asked me to write our story, and she - she died, right there on the stage. In - in my arms..." His soft crying had broken suddenly into harsh sobs -- the sobs of a boy, a child -- and, ashamed, he dropped his head into his hands. God, if his father woke in the middle of the night to this - !  
  
"Ah, mon chere fil." Margaret laid a hand on his shaking shoulder.  
  
"I *love* her," he whispered fiercely, not knowing if he spoke in French or English. "Elle est morte, mais je l'aime!"  
  
"Je sais, Christian. I know that you love her, and I know that it hurts. But you have to go on -"  
  
"I don't *want* to go on! I would give everything I own just to have her back again, because nothing means anything to me without her!"  
  
She took his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. The desperation in his eyes frightened her. "Christian. I never met your Satine, but you have told me enough that I know her like a friend. She loved you, too, and she would not want you to throw away your life just because she lost hers."  
  
"Mais les Francias sont hereuse mourir pour l'amour," he muttered.  
  
"What?"  
  
"'The French are glad to die for love'...it was part of her act in the Rouge."  
  
"You forget that you are English."  
  
"My heart is French."  
  
It sounded so poetic; Margaret wondered if he even realized it. "Have you done as she asked? Written your story?"  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Have you even tried?"  
  
"Dozens of times. I could never get past our meeting in the elephant, and I burnt whatever I wrote; it never seemed to live up to her."  
  
"And so you came here, hoping for inspiration? A change of scenery? Peace and quiet?"  
  
"Relief."  
  
"And absolution, non? You feel guilty for letting her leave you that day, when she told you she had chosen the 'maharaja.' Guilty because you kept trying to pay her. Perhaps when you forgive yourself, you will be able to live again." She picked up her glass and the bottle (still half-full) and took them into the kitchen. Christian downed the last of his drink swiftly and followed her.  
  
"I think it is time you slept, Christian," she told him as she washed the glasses. She smiled gently. "Bon soir, ou bon matin?"   
  
Bon matin indeed; the clock had struck two when Christian had still been telling her of the Duke's "ownership" of Satine.  
  
"Merci, Maman." He kissed her briefly on each cheek, and went upstairs to bed.  
  
It was the first sober night since her death in which he had been able to sleep easily.  
  
  



	5. Home, Where My Music's Playing

Homeward Bound  
Chapter Five: Home, Where My Music's Playing  
  
Author's Note: Due to circumstances beyond my control (that's not saying I would change it or anything) I will be on vacation in Florida for two weeks, from July 28th to August 11th. So I'll be walking on the beach and riding Small World (don't ask, lol) at Disney during that time, leaving me little time to write and probably no time at all to be online! I don't know if I'll make it. So, you'll have to survive for awhile without the last chapter. (Will the next one be the last? Don't ask me, ask him. *points to the plot bunny lurking in the corner* He won't stop growing! He started out all nice and manageable, but he's out of control now...) Anyway, here's an extra-long chapter just to hold you over! :-)  
  
A/N II: Yes, sneaking the title song into the ending of this chapter is a bit of an anachronism. But how many REAL Parisian nightclubs were singing "Teen Spirit" in 1899? The whole premise of the movie itself is quite anachronistic. So forgive me.  
  
**I have NO idea what they eat for breakfast in England, so they eat the same things we would eat here in Ohio, if we ever ate something that could be considered a normal breakfast. (They're not eating Cheerios and cold pizza, which is what I had this morning.)**  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing; I am getting no monetary reward for this. Don't make me sic my trained attack chipmunks on you!  
  
~~  
  
Homeward Bound  
Chapter Five: Home, Where My Music's Playing  
  
  
For the first time in weeks, Christian woke up without wishing to be dead. It was, he thought, the lack of a hangover that robbed him of his usual despondency. If he thought dying would assure him an eternity with Satine, he'd take his own life in an instant.  
  
But before his side trip to Paris, Christian had been brought up a good Catholic boy, and according to the local priest, suicide was unforgivable.   
  
Christian did *not* want to die for her, then wind up in Hell for eternity due to an oversight. Although now that he thought about it, prostitution was a sin, and Satine had never been ashamed of her job, so perhaps that was where she had gone...  
  
The idea of Satine in eternal torment horrified him, and sent him spiraling back into the melancholy he'd grown so used to. Well, it was familiar territory, at least.  
  
He realized that it was only seven-fifteen, that breakfast might not be over yet. He dressed and headed downstairs, wondering if he'd even have an appetite.  
  
~~  
  
His parents were sitting at the table. *Damn it,* Christian thought, trying not to glare at his father. *Why hasn't he left yet?*  
  
"Robert's already gone to work," his mother explained unnecessarily. Christian hadn't even noticed his brother's absence.  
  
"Speaking of which," his father muttered, "when are you planning to find employment around here?"  
  
Christian sat down. "I'll look for a job when I decide where I ought to be," he replied quietly, hoping to avoid a confrontation. It was too early to argue.  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" his father returned sharply. "You belong here in England."  
  
"I think that's for me to decide," Christian said calmly, accepting a platter of biscuits from his mother. "I've been gone for awhile, and I'm not sure London is where I want to be any longer."  
  
"You'll not be going back to that sinful country," his father warned.  
  
Instead of replying, Christian concentrated on his breakfast. He wondered if his face was red, as it seemed to be burning. He wanted to retort, in fact, he even had one ready...  
  
But it always hurt Margaret to see father and son fighting, so he let it go. For ten minutes, it seemed that the storm had blown over. Then Peter opened his mouth again.  
  
"If you've gotten of those whores pregnant, you'll marry her, and you'll bring both the streetwalker and the child back here. If you're lucky, no one will question the baby's legitimacy."  
  
Christian's face didn't feel like it was burning anymore; rather, he felt cold all over. When he set his biscuit on his plate, he noticed that his hands were shaking.  
  
Margaret winced at her husband's words, but he couldn't have known what a horrible thing it was to say. She saw the color drain from Christian's face, and he looked alarmingly like he was about to faint.  
  
When he finally found the composure to speak, he murmured coldly, "I hope to God you speak out of ignorance and not out of spite." He thought he would feel anger, but instead there was nothing. Just a cold blankness in his mind.  
  
"Ignorance?"   
  
His father had raised his voice again, and this was going to be an argument. Christian gave his mother a wanly apologetic glance, but let his father finish.  
  
"In what way am I *ignorant,* son?"  
  
Christian had never known any man to make such an endearment as "son" sound so cold. He stood up. He didn't realize that he was doing it on purpose, to look more imposing, perhaps. His father still seemed to labor under the impression that his son was just a boy, a misconception Christian was ready to disprove. "You are ignorant of the truth, Father. You have not asked me what happened in France; if you had, perhaps you would understand. Instead, you immediately assume that I spent every waking hour with various loose women, and that I spent the entire ten months in a drunken stupor. You don't know what really happened, or perhaps you would not judge so quickly. Your assumptions make you ignorant."  
  
Peter would never have expected an accusation of bigotry to pour forth from his son as softly as it did, but the tone made it no less of an accusation. "Do not presume to preach your foolish idealism to me in my own household. This business about the Bohemian revolutionaries is trash, and to be taken in by it makes you the ignorant one."  
  
"Maybe it does," Christian agreed sadly, and the expression on his face was to Margaret far worse than any verbal battle. His shoulders slumped, and he looked completely defeated in body and spirit. She had never seen him capitulate to Peter in any way ever before.  
  
Christian walked slowly away from the table, heading for the stairs and the solitude of his room.  
  
"Don't you walk away from me!" Peter shouted after him.  
  
Christian stopped momentarily, but he didn't turn around. "Va au enfer," he muttered colorlessly.  
  
Margaret gasped. "Christian!"  
  
He started walking again. He didn't really want to be nearby when his father found out that he had just been told to go to hell.  
  
"Margaret, what did he say? Was he speaking that French again? If he was, so help me - "  
  
"It was harmless, Peter," she lied. "Just an expression."  
  
"Then why were you so shocked?" he asked shrewdly.  
  
"Well, he'd...told me he would do better about speaking only English when you're around. I was disappointed that he'd made a mistake."  
  
Christian chuckled mirthlessly from the top of the stairs. Well, his mother was defending him; too bad the rest of the world was allied on the opposing side.  
  
~~  
  
He was getting very used to spending all his time in one room; he had done so in Paris after Satine's death, and now he was sequestering himself here. He had found an English copy of Les Miserables on the bookshelf in his room, and for a time he thought no more of Satine.  
  
But when Fantine's character made herself present, he dropped the book. A dying courtesan, one who still believed in love even though she had to sell herself. Suddenly Christian had had enough of long-ago France, and he tossed the book away and fell into a dreamless doze.  
  
He woke up, any number of hours later, to a soft but persistent knocking on his door. "C'min," he called indistinctly, more than half asleep.  
  
Margaret entered with a tray of food. "I thought you'd be writing," she commented with mild reproof, gazing at the unused typewriter. "I brought you some food," she added, "since if left to yourself right now you'd probably starve."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She knew he had no intention of eating, but maternal instinct made her bring him something anyway. "It's long past teatime," she informed him gently. "You really ought to eat something."  
  
"Mm." It was a complete non-answer, more of an acknowledgement that he'd heard her than anything else.  
  
She sighed. "I'll be here, if there's anything you need, or if you just want to talk."  
  
He rolled over and stared blankly at the ceiling. "I don't think talking will do any more good."  
  
"Talking to your father might."  
  
He snorted. "Closed-minded old bastard won't listen to me. Maybe I've lost faith in Bohemian ideals, but he's never known what it's like to believe in them. Truth, perhaps he understands somewhat. Beauty? Paris was beautiful, in a way he'll never want to comprehend. Freedom, no. He doesn't want me to have mine; he wants me to end up just as he has, and I've no intention of doing so. And love..." he trailed off. "Perhaps he feels love, but he will never understand it."  
  
"Of course not; he lacks your poetic mind. But he does love, Christian, and he does love you."  
  
"Right," he returned disbelievingly.  
  
Margaret thought it best to let this go. She set the tray down on the desk by the typewriter, smiled at her eldest son, and left the room without another word. He would eat when he grew hungry enough.  
  
~~  
  
Christian spent a few more hours in his room, barely moving. He watched the sunlight slant through his windows. After a time, the sun itself appeared between the open curtains, glowing a bittersweet red-gold. He was glad his room faced west; he had always preferred sunsets to sunrises.  
  
Eventually the sun, too, disappeared, and the first stars dared to shine in the twilight. They grew slowly in number until the sky looked like velvet strewn with diamonds.   
  
Diamonds...  
  
Christian sat up, wincing at the vertigo that seemed to be tilting the floor.  
  
The tray was still lying untouched on the desk. He drank the tea; it was cold, but bearable. The sandwiches, too, were palatable, but the bowl of soup was a complete loss.  
  
He only ate a bit of the sandwiches, as he still didn't seem to have any appetite. Then he sat back down on the edge of the bed. The only trouble with sleeping all day was that when nighttime came, one was too awake. The clock in the front hall had chimed its loud eleven a few minutes ago -- surely everyone else was asleep by now.  
  
He recalled the half-bottle of absinthe in the kitchen cupboard with a glimmering of interest. He shouldn't...his father was already upset, and there was no point in bringing Christian's apparent alcoholism into this mess. But as long as he didn't get *too* drunk, perhaps no one would be the wiser.  
  
Of course, he better stay lucid enough to be in control. He vaguely recalled launching an empty bottle at the Duke (whom he had imagined to have seen in Satine's elephant) while under the influence. Other times the absinthe sent him into a deep grief, during which he cried unabashedly for hours.  
  
But such occurrences were rare, and he was willing to take that risk. He opened the door quietly, then headed down the stairs, skipped the appropriate squeaking step and walked down the hallway to the kitchen.  
  
He opened the top cupboard and brought out the glass bottle. It was a little more than half-full: plenty of absinthe on which to get drunk. He pulled out the stopper, then hesitated. He could get a glass, but then, he planned to drink the remainder of the bottle anyway. Why bother with a goblet?  
  
He stared at the absinthe for another instant and sighed. "Christian, you are an addict," he muttered, then lifted the bottle to his lips.  
  
A few sips later, the room began to feel comfortably warmer, and he started to wander the house. It wasn't really a mental decision so much as something that just *happened.*  
  
He looked into the dining room and remembered the morning he had told his father he was going to Paris. He probably should have waited until after breakfast, as the ensuing fight had allowed the meal to grow cold.  
  
Enough of the dining room. He had just come from the kitchen, a room in which he had spent very little time. He thought about the first time he had tried to cook dinner -- he had been eight years old, and his mother was sick with a cold. So he had tried to make dinner for her, and ended up burning the food and ruining one of the pots. Ah, childhood.  
  
The parlor looked the same as it always had. There was the couch on which he'd had his first kiss, stolen from a neighbor's daughter when their respective fathers had briefly left the room. And the mismatched lamps on the two end tables; he remembered playing some sort of ball game with Robert, and the ball knocking over one of the old blue lamps. They'd agreed to stick up for one another, no matter what kind of torture the two of them were put to, but in the end they had blamed the incident adamantly on each other.  
  
On second thought, the parlor didn't look quite like it ought to have been. Something was missing from it, something he realized was fairly important, but couldn't quite place. He drank a little more absinthe, and succeeded in only further muddling the situation. (He had, by this time, imbibed more than half of the remaining drink; he wasn't even very drunk.)  
  
He hadn't seen the living room yet. That was where he'd spent most of his time: The dining room was for meals only, his room furnished only the purpose of sleeping, and the parlor was for teatime and company. The rest of his life seemed to have been spent curled up on one of the wing chairs by the fire, reading this or that novel.  
  
He stumbled clumsily -- not drunkenly -- in the doorway, grabbing the closest piece of furniture in order not to fall flat on his face. He smiled; this was what the parlor had been missing, and it hadn't been discarded or chopped up for firewood. The old upright piano stood against the living room wall, covered in a white sheet. He tugged the sheet off, and the wood glinted in the dim glow of a gaslight just outside the window.  
  
Why did the sight of the piano make him so sad? Oh, right: The last time he had played, he had been in the Moulin Rouge, composing with Satine. He took another drink from the bottle -- only a little left now -- and set it on the floor beside the piano. He stood there for a minute, considering, then slowly sat down at the bench.  
  
No one had touched it since he'd been gone; the last song he'd played before leaving was still perched on the music stand. He didn't even notice it as he lifted the cover from the keyboard. His hands seemed to start shaking as he positioned them over the smooth ivory keys. The house was large enough, and the bedrooms far enough away, that the sound shouldn't carry and wake anyone up.  
  
His fingers brushed the keys in a quick broken chord, four pleasant rolling notes. He pulled back quickly, as though surprised by the warm sound. There; he had established that the piano still functioned. It was in relatively good tune, as well.  
  
Now all he had to do was find the will to really *play.* He let his left hand drop, barely touching the keys with the fingers of his right hand. He hit three brief notes, then pulled away again.  
  
  
Never knew...  
  
  
But it had sounded too staccato, too sharp. What was he forgetting? Ah, the pedal. He played a few more lines, one-handed but more smoothly.  
  
  
I could feel like this  
Like I've never seen the sky before  
Want to vanish inside your kiss  
Everyday I love you more and more  
Listen to my heart, can you hear? It sings  
Telling me to give you everything  
Seasons may change, winter to spring  
But I love you  
Until the end of time  
  
  
He wasn't sure of the point at which he'd brought his left hand up, but by the first refrain he realized suddenly that he was playing harmony as well.  
  
  
Come what may  
Come what may  
I will love you  
Until my dying day  
  
Everything seemed to fall into a different perspective then. The dazzling, sordid splendor of the Rouge; Satine as the Sparkling Diamond; making love to her in the elephant bedroom. He remembered her *alive* and in his arms.  
  
His hands moved on to the next verse, Satine's part, and he saw her singing in his mind's eye. He saw her turn on the half-finished rehearsal stage, singing to him instead of the sitar player. He saw himself standing on the stage with her, directing the sitar player to "kiss her like this" and demonstrating, taking Satine in his arms and dipping her back just a little. The Duke had been furious, but then, the Duke didn't matter.  
  
  
And there's no mountain too high  
Nor river too wide  
Sing out this song and I'll be there  
By your side  
Storm clouds may gather  
And stars may collide...  
  
  
"But I love you," he whispered, his hands falling from the keys, "until the end of time." It didn't seem necessary to play any more of the song. He had accomplished the purpose he didn't know he'd had: he could think of Satine now. He was still in love with her, with her memory, but it didn't hurt to remember her anymore.  
  
He sat at the piano motionlessly as the shock of this new revelation sank in. Then he looked up, and his eye caught the title of the sheet music.  
  
"'Homeward Bound,'" he said softly. And suddenly he knew where he belonged.  
  
TBC  
  



	6. Home, Where My Love Lies Waiting

Homeward Bound  
Chapter Six: Home, Where My Love Lies Waiting  
  
  
Guess what? This ISN'T the last chapter! *laughs diabolically* I place all the blame on the plot bunny. He followed me to Florida, and I was on the Haunted House ride at Disney when suddenly I came up with another ending. (The ride had nothing to do with it, that was just where I happened to be.) So, even though this could be a perfectly complete ending, there will be one...and ONLY one *glares at the plot bunny* more chapter on the way.   
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. If you sue me, I will squirt you with my aloe sunburn gel, which kind of stings if you get it in your eyes. Do not test me.  
  
Bon voyage = Have a good trip  
mon fil = my son (that one you ought to remember from past chapters)  
  
~~  
  
Homeward Bound  
Chapter Six: Home, Where My Love Lies Waiting  
  
  
Christian got up and closed the cover on the piano keys. After a second's thought, he grabbed the sheet music before throwing the cloth back over the piano.  
  
He picked up the bottle of absinthe and looked at the remaining liquid. He knew that he'd been teetering on the edge of full-blown drunk ten minutes ago, but suddenly he was completely sober. His thoughts had stopped drifting in and out of clarity; usually after that much absinthe, they didn't stop doing that until the next morning. Had he somehow shocked himself sober? It was something to think about, but not right now. Now, there were more important things to do.  
  
There was only a little bit left in the bottle. It wasn't really even worth putting it back anymore...He could drink the rest, but then he didn't really need it. Maybe he'd take it with him, and drink the rest with Toulouse; there was probably enough left for two glasses.  
  
Music and bottle in hand, he climbed the stairs up to his room and surveyed the area briefly. Typewriter was starting to gather dust on his desk. Clothes hadn't been washed, but he could wash them in Paris just as well as in England. He pulled his suitcase out from under the bed and started throwing clothes into it. There was a four a.m. train to the coast, a six-thirty ferry across the Channel, and from that point he could catch another train to Paris and then maybe a cab to the stairs of Montmartre. He could be there by early afternoon.  
  
Well, he could be there if he left sometime in the next half-hour. Which meant that he'd either have to wake everyone up and inform them he was leaving, or he could just go, maybe leave a note so his mother wouldn't be too worried.  
  
There was no contest, really. He quickly wrote out two similar notes, one in English to his father, and one to his mother in French. The note to his father merely said that Christian had made up his mind, and that he didn't wish to burden the family any longer with a good-for-nothing son. (Oh, it had hurt him to write that...it was demeaning, even if it was a lie.)  
  
The note to his mother went into considerably more detail, explaining that Christian really did love his father, but that it was clear the two of them could not live sanely in the same house. That, and he'd finally realized that London was not where he was meant to be. He knew that Margaret had meant for him to go back from the beginning: not because she didn't want him to stay in England, but because she'd known he truly belonged in Paris. He thanked her for the insight he couldn't have found alone, and left the address of the boarding house he'd stayed in before. If he couldn't get a room there, he added, he'd send her a letter with his new address.  
  
His clothes were packed. He laid the bottle in with them, set the music down inside, and tossed Les Miserables in on top of everything. It was something to do on the train, at least. He latched the suitcase, picked it up, grabbed the typewriter case and the letters, and started downstairs.  
  
He tripped on the rug at the top. For an instant he was certain he would tumble down the stairs, and could only pray that he didn't break his neck on the way. He dropped the suitcase, caught hold of the banister, and any danger of immediate death had passed. He swore at himself -- since when had he ever been so uncoordinated?  
  
Then the suitcase fell off the stair on which it had, unbeknownst to Christian, been teetering. He could only wince as it bounced down the steps, each impact seemingly as loud as a bomb. It hit the squeaking stair (the creak wasn't even audible through the noise of the collision) and finally came to a stop at the bottom, where the resulting noise was loud enough to rattle the windows.  
  
"Oh, shit," he muttered, looking back up the hall. A floorboard creaked in his parents' room -- there was no way they could have missed that. Robert slept like a rock, though, and probably hadn't heard anything. Christian made his way down the stairs and crouched down to examine the suitcase. It was still in one piece, remarkably undamaged by its fall.  
  
Whether Christian would be in such good condition after his father was done with him would be another story. He tossed the two notes into the wastebasket -- it looked like he'd be explaining in person now.  
  
His parents were standing at the top of the steps now, his mother looking concerned, his father only angry.  
  
"You didn't fall?" Margaret asked breathlessly.  
  
"No, I dropped the suitcase."  
  
His father glared down at him. "Leaving? At this hour? Let me guess...you weren't man enough to tell us you were going back."  
  
Christian sighed. "No, I just didn't want to wake anyone up. I've been enough trouble already, and I didn't want to cause any more. But yes, I am going back to Paris. I can catch an early train and be there by afternoon."  
  
Margaret appeared to accept this instantly. She descended the stairs swiftly and rummaged around in the hall desk. "Here: it ought to be enough for the train and ferry, and a little extra for food."  
  
Christian shook his head. "No, Mother, I can't take that."  
  
"Damn right you can't, boy!" Peter thundered, coming down to join them in the foyer. "You won't need the money, because you're staying here!"  
  
Christian had taken all he could, and now he was going to stand up for himself. "Christ, Father, I spent the first twenty-three years of my life living the way you wanted me to, and that's enough! I'm sorry you didn't have the courage to stand up to your father and do what you wanted, but I do, and I *am* going back to Paris tonight."  
  
Peter was stunned, but only momentarily. "Y-your mother..."  
  
"...is right there. If she has a protest she is quite capable of speaking for herself. Don't try to use her to keep me here!"  
  
"Peter, he's right," Margaret said patiently. "The boy belongs where he's happy, and with you shouting at him all the time, it's no wonder he's not happy here! He's not a child, and he's perfectly capable of making his own decisions. Let him grow up."  
  
Peter just stood there glaring for a moment. "You'll be back."  
  
Christian shrugged. "If I was welcome, then yes, I'd visit on occasion." He knew that his father had meant he'd come back in shame, and had deliberately misinterpreted it. Peter was glaring bullets at him, but Christian refused to back down.  
  
Margaret pressed a roll of banknotes into Christian's hand. "Take it, Christian. For me. I'd like to know that you won't starve to death."  
  
He sighed. "All right, Mother, I'll take it."  
  
She kissed him quickly on each cheek. "I believe you have a train to catch."  
  
He smiled and hugged her. "Thank you for everything. I'll send you my address when I get to Montmartre, in case you need it, all right?"  
  
She nodded, her eyes sparkling. A tear had escaped and was trailing down her cheek.  
  
"Don't do that," Christian whispered gently. "You'll change my mind."  
  
She wiped at her eyes and gave him a light push in the direction of the door. "Oh, go on, or you'll miss the train."  
  
Christian turned to his father and held out his hand, hoping for perhaps a truce. "Sir?"  
  
Peter didn't move, and Christian turned away. It was nothing more than he'd expected, but he'd hoped...  
  
He took his coat and hat from the stand by the door and put them on quickly, not wanting to see the anger that seemed to be permanently etched into his father's face. He picked up the typewriter and suitcase without looking in his father's direction.  
  
Christian stepped out onto the porch. A veil of clouds had cloaked the stars; it would be a long walk to the train station, but he could make it. He hoped it wouldn't snow before dawn. He started down the porch steps and onto the walkway.  
  
Behind him, the door opened. "Christian!"  
  
He stopped. Was Peter going to make one last attempt to keep him here? Christian turned around.  
  
"Take the number seventeen train to the ferry -- it's fastest."  
  
Peter wasn't smiling, but it was more of a blessing than Christian could have hoped for. His father was too stubborn to actually apologize; the advice had been extended as a peace offering, and Christian wasn't about to turn it down.  
  
"Thank you," he said quietly, his breath turning into fog in the cold night.  
  
And then his father did smile, grudgingly, for just an instant. "Bon voyage, mon fil."  
  



	7. Silently For Me

Homeward Bound  
Chapter Seven: Silently For Me  
  
Disclaimer: Nope, it's still not mine. All homage to the glorious Baz.  
  
This is it, folks, the final chapter! I dedicate this to everyone who has read and reviewed any of these chapters...if you haven't reviewed, this dedication should make you feel very guilty so you'll review the final part. ;-)  
  
Author's Note: The song line was "I would give everything I own just to have her [you] back again..." It was from "Everything I Own," originally by Bread, although it was covered by *NSYNC. I get to keep all the Cool Points. Muwahahahaha!  
  
--Monsieur Christian = Mr. Christian  
--Est ton pere ici? = Is your father here?  
--Non, Papa n'est pas ici. = No, Papa isn't here.  
--Je te donne cinq francs si tu prends mes valises a la mansarde. = I'll give you 5 francs if you'll take my bags up to the garret room.  
--Bien? = All right?  
--Oui = Yes  
--Merci = You ought to remember this one ;-) It means thank you.  
--J'ai les affaires. C'est important, mais je vais retourner. = I have something I must do. It's important, but I will come back.  
  
Homeward Bound  
Chapter Seven: Silently For Me  
  
Paris had never seemed so sunny before. It wasn't just that Christian was glad to be back: It was February, but it had suddenly become spring. A false spring, of course; in a week, maybe less, there would be snow on the ground again, churned to a sickly, slushy gray in the gutters.  
  
But that didn't matter right now. The moment he stepped off the train, Christian knew he'd made the right decision. Had it been colder, he would have hailed a carriage to take him to Montmartre. But the sun was warm, so he had decided to walk.  
  
The garret room of his boarding house looked empty; that was hopeful. The room above looked lived-in, but he couldn't tell if the occupant was Toulouse or not. Christian wondered wryly whether the hole in the ceiling of his room had ever been fixed -- he doubted it.  
He knocked, but the landlord wasn't home; his ten-year-old son answered the door.  
  
"Monsieur Christian!"  
  
"Bonjour, Jaques. Est ton pere ici?"  
  
The boy looked down at the floor. "Non, Papa n'est pas ici."  
  
Translation: his father was out getting drunk and, likely as not, cheating on Jaques's mother. Christian crouched down to the kid's height. "Je te donne...cinq francs si tu prends mes valises a la mansarde. Bien?"   
  
He grinned. "Oui, Monsieur Christian."  
  
"Merci. J'ai...les affaires. C'est important, mais je vais retourner."  
  
Jaques nodded and picked up Christian's typewriter and suitcase.  
  
Christian waved as he closed the door behind him. He wasn't too sure that he wanted to do this, but he had to. Before he could start anything, he had to make a stop somewhere.  
  
~~  
  
The sun was slanting into late afternoon when he reached the iron fence. He turned around, seeing the entire landscape of Montmartre through the eyes of a bird. This hilltop was beautiful; he was glad they'd chosen this place.  
  
He opened the gate slowly and stepped inside the churchyard. It was even warmer now, enough that Christian had taken off his coat while climbing the hill. In a few days, though, there would come another frost, enough to kill the crocuses that dared to poke their heads through the snow that still lay beneath the oak trees. The warmth would be brief, like so many other things. Like life.  
  
But while it was here, it was to be enjoyed, used up.  
  
Satine's grave was not difficult to find. There was no longer anything so obvious as a mound of earth, or course, but he seemed to know the location instantly.  
  
A marble headstone marked her grave; Christian knew that the Duke's money was behind the stone, but the inscription must have been requested by Toulouse. He knelt down to read it.   
  
Satine  
1875-1899  
"The French are glad to die for love."  
  
He laid the rose he'd bought at the base of the stone. He could practically hear Satine's voice in his head.  
  
  
*A single rose absolutely screams that a man is cheap.*  
  
  
-Not cheap, just poor,- Christian amended mentally. He spread his coat out on the damp grass beside her headstone and lay back on it, gazing up at the thin, drifting clouds. He wondered one more time if he was just being stupid and overly romantic, but he was a Bohemian, after all, and for them nothing could be too romantic.  
  
"I...I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to come," he said quietly. Could she hear him? Who knew? Did it really matter, so long as he said what he'd come here to say? "The funeral...I just couldn't bring myself to go. It was too soon; it would have driven me out of my mind. I don't know, maybe I'm out of my mind anyway, lying here and talking to you like this.  
  
"I went back to England a few days ago. I just couldn't take another night alone in that room. Well, not alone, since Toulouse seemed to think I was in imminent danger of suicide. He slept out on the balcony, can you believe it? In the middle of winter. He thought I was going to throw myself off of it or something. I wouldn't have, but he was too good a friend to take me at my word, I suppose. Perhaps drunk I might have fallen from the balcony, but that wouldn't have been suicide. Absinthe is far too easy to get in this damn country, you know that? I don't think I woke up without a hangover for at least two months. Christ, listen to me. I'm rambling.  
  
"I, er...haven't started writing yet." He imagined her reaction: A mock-pout, a scoff.  
  
  
*What's keeping you? You wrote an entire play in a month -- how long could it possibly take you to write a story you already know?*  
  
  
"The words won't come, love." Great, now he was answering her imaginary voice. "I can't force myself to tell a story if I can't find the words. I'm trying, though. I've *been* trying, really, but every time I try to tell it, the words just come out wrong. I burnt all the attempts I made; they just didn't sound right. Once or twice I got so frustrated I almost burnt the typewriter, too. That was when I knew I needed a change of scenery, so to speak. I just needed to get away from the Rouge and everything that had happened there.  
  
"So, for lack of any other options, I went back to England. My mother's from France, and I think she understood, but my father...he just doesn't know me, and he never wanted to take time to learn who I was. He wants me to become what he is: a closed-minded, jaded old schoolteacher afraid to leave his own little island. The only reason he's that way is because that's what his father was, and probably *his* father, too. We argued; he thought my coming back to England was for good, forever. I wasn't sure if I was staying or not, and he couldn't accept that I preferred this absurd, neurotic, beautiful 'sinful country' to England.  
  
"I miss you," he said suddenly, only half-aware that he'd gone off on the verbal equivalent of a side road again. "A month, even a week ago it physically hurt to think about you, but now...I just wish more than anything that you were still here." He wiped his eyes and grinned wryly. "Damn it, I swore I wasn't going to do that anymore! And here I am, falling apart again.  
  
"My mother finally convinced me to tell her what happened, and when I did, she told me that I would have to forgive myself before I could live again. I didn't even know I'd been blaming myself for anything until she said that. I guess I thought that if I hadn't surprised you by coming backstage, and then followed you, then perhaps nothing would have happened. Everything that went wrong that night was my fault: I was the one that screwed up the play (thank God Zidler managed to recover it), and it just seemed logical that your death would be my fault, too. But...then I remembered you falling from the swing during "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend," and I realized that you'd been dying all along.  
  
"How long did you know, Satine? How long did you try to hide it from me...or had they been hiding it from you, too? If you knew, then...I'm glad you never told me. If I'd known when I met you what I know right now, I might not have let things happen the way they did. And I wouldn't give up the time I spent with you for anything in the world, love."  
  
A breeze brought a cool edge to the afternoon, reminding Christian that the days were short. "The night after I told Mother, I got her bottle of absinthe and set out to get drunk. I wandered into the living room and found my piano. Well, it wasn't mine, but nobody had ever used the thing except me. The music I'd played before I left was still there; no one had even uncovered it since I'd been gone. I wanted so badly to play, but...I was afraid to. Because the last time I'd played anything at all, it had been 'Come What May,' and I had been with you. But finally I just sat down. I started to play...and found that I could. Everything seemed to fall into a different light. I can't explain what happened, or why, or how, but I realized that I wanted to *live* again. That you would want me to. And I knew then that I had already made my decision."  
  
  
*And what decision was that?*  
  
  
He smiled into the sunset-golden sky. "I decided to come home."  
  



End file.
